


The Daddy's Girl

by reflectivemuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Other, includes one brief descriptive scene of sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reflectivemuse/pseuds/reflectivemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam have enough to deal with concerning the Mark of Cain when they meet a spunky teenage girl who's gunning for Rowena to avenge her father. They have no choice but to help her first, but the girl has a secret that could change everything for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> originally written sometime in the middle of season 10. probably takes place between Book of the Damned and Dark Dynasty because Charlie is still alive and Cass has his grace again.

The people living near a modest-sized house, originally home to a mechanic and his daughter, but now to a freelance writer and his niece, never had anything negative to say about their neighbors. Good people, they would tell the authorities later, even if the folks they were describing had for the most part kept to themselves. They weren’t friendly, and the girl who lived there was decidedly troubled, but everyone knew her story, and everyone felt sorry for her. Her parents had gone through a nasty separation when she was very young, it was said, and her father maintained custody because the mother was criminally insane.

The family’s anti-social nature was pardoned when people noticed how much the man and his daughter had adored one another, and how badly the girl’s world was torn apart with her father’s murder. The case was never solved. From the age of thirteen, the girl was raised by her uncle and aunt, although the aunt rarely stayed at home for very long.

The neighbors knew all this, and told the investigators that they’d just assumed every family had its issues. How could they have known? After all, no one expected for tragedy to strike twice.

They didn’t know the girl’s family at all.

It happened one morning in early February, when an icy fog hovered over the house. Frost coated everything from the grass to the cars, sparkling like glitter. The morning light hiding behind the curtained windows filtered into the girl’s bedroom as a pale blue glow. And that’s how she slept, truly slept, for the first time in years. She’d even set her alarm to play Boston’s “More Than A Feeling,” a song that no one else she knew even remembered.

She was moving out today, off to an on-campus residence at Yale with a fully paid scholarship. Which meant that for the first time in years, she would be safe. And the distance between her family and herself would keep them safe as well.

As Boston reached the chorus, the girl brushed her unevenly cut black hair and fought to keep her bangs centered. She slipped on her vintage dark leather jacket, all the while thinking about the jokes her dad would have made about choosing art as a profession. Dragging her suitcase down the hall seemed like an unnecessary burden, so she called out for her uncle.

“You awake? A little help here!” she groaned, pulling the luggage handle. “C’mon, you want me to leave the nest, don’t you?”

The house was too quiet. The girl tensed, released the suitcase, and very unwillingly stepped with trepidation into the living room. The first thing she saw was on the floor: a pair of broken glasses. The next thing she saw struck her like lightning to the heart.

“Uncle –” she whispered. So much blood surrounding his open skull. It was too much to take in, and the girl fell to her knees in front of his corpse. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed into her hands. It was her fault. All of it. Back in her mind, she knew she’d killed him, just like she’d killed her aunt, who had promised to call them when she left the airport a year ago and then disappeared without a trace.

Just like she’d killed her father.

She didn’t hear it at first, the sound of the door swinging open. By the time she had, a pair of large hands were gripping her shoulders and pulling her to a standing position with a ruthless jerk. Her screams were cut short by the hand that covered her mouth. She seized the opportunity and bit as hard as she could on the flesh, tasting blood.

The man holding her yanked his hand back with a curse, and the blow he struck her sent the girl sailing into a wall. His eyes flicked to liquid black and he snarled. “She’s coming.”

The room seemed to tilt like a boat on water, but somehow the sensation generated an idea from somewhere in the girl’s mind.

“Who’s coming?” she demanded, scrambling dizzily to her feet.

“The Queen of Hell.” The man–demon–who’d killed her uncle gave a sharp, nasty smile, like a sadistic Cheshire cat. “And I shall be rewarded greatly.”

Presumptuous, much? Although every fiber of her insides seethed with hatred for the demon and his Queen, the delirious smile that spread across her face matched his.

“Oh really? Then you can tell Rowena she can kiss my bonny ass!” She dashed down the hallway towards her bedroom, ignoring her awareness of the demon chasing after her. She’d barely shut the door when the demon struck it with his fist. Acting fast, she spotted an old birthday gift from her aunt–a real sword that was mounted on her wall– unsheathed it, and stuck it hard in the frame, horizontally across the doorknob so to block the demon.

“Salt, salt,” she hissed through her teeth, grabbing a can of Morton’s from the shelf by her door. She poured a line a safe distance from the door so that it couldn’t be broken when the demon came in. Finally, she went to her nightstand. Below the alarm that was still playing Boston on repeat was a bag of items she needed for a certain spell. She couldn’t say she’d never considered it, or that she wasn’t prepared for it. But the girl was nervous, because she’d never tried this one. But she prepared the ingredients in a bowl and said the incantation. She took a small knife and pricked her palm cautiously, then cut deeper.

As she honed into her power, her fingers drawing the blood sigil, the demon kicked the door open, with the red-haired witch at his side. Seeing Rowena in person, looking like what her dad would have described as the evil Scottish Peg Bundy (whoever that was), brought back nightmarish memories the girl couldn’t dwell on. The sword and its sheath had flown and hit the wall with their entrance, which made the girl just smile again.

“Thanks!” she said, grabbing the sword as the sigil began to glow. An all-consuming flash drowned out Rowena’s shouts, and when it dissipated, the witch and the demon were the only ones left in the room.


	2. Chapter 2

It just had to be one of those nights.

Dean Winchester sitting at a bar counter was nothing new, but he’d come in tonight only for a few drinks. Mostly it was to get away from his brother for a little while. He checked behind his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed, and then drained his glass. His thoughts about missing the days when he’d been able to taste the burn of whiskey in his mouth turned an entirely different direction.

Dean had once thought he knew what it meant to be cursed. To be set on a hunter’s path since childhood, destined to fight monsters until one killed him before he reached fifty definitely qualified as a curse. But now, with the red welt symbol on his forearm, Dean thought he’d like to exchange the latter curse for the former. It was bad enough that he would die prematurely; he didn’t have to take everyone else down with him.

Sam had a solution, of course. His younger brother always had a solution.

Just earlier, back home at the bunker, he’d tried to convince Dean while the elder Winchester was staring at yet another book on the removal of demonic symbols. Maybe it was because he realized he’d probably read that same book at least twice already and he was now able to recite the highlights–nothing on removing ancient symbols from the flesh, unfortunately–but he wasn’t very receptive to Sam’s suggestion.

Not that his brother hadn’t approached it with caution. “Look, man, about what I said before,” he’d begun.  
“You know, about Cain living with his Mark. Maybe he did it by staying away from killing.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and snapped the book shut. “Well, this was a whole lotta text just to explain how to break a symbol with a knife. Seriously, they didn’t even have a section on tulpas,” he said sarcastically.

Irritated, Sam pressed on. “Dude, did you hear what I just said?”

“What, you mean me just throwing in the towel and walking away from the only life we’ve ever known? Yeah, I heard.” Dean shoved the book away from him, feeling his frustration turn into anger. Uh oh.

Oblivious to the beginnings of yet more internal warfare for Dean, Sam said emphatically, “We’ve both had our share of normal, Dean. And I know that deep down, it’s what you need. Think about it – what we do, being surrounded by monsters and violence and daily threats…it’s making the Mark worse than it might be if you had a home, a job, a dog. Kids.”

In the movies, had there been a record playing right then, it would have screeched to a stop. “Whoa, hold on,” Dean said, feeling defensive despite having no valid reason for it. “I never said anything about kids, Sam.”

Sam sighed. “You didn’t have to.”

So you want me to leave you fighting on, right until you die and no one’ll do anything about it, Dean thought bitterly, grabbing his large green cargo jacket. “I’m getting some air,” he said.

Nothing personal, Sam. That just ain’t me.

He wasn’t sure what rankled more, the suggestion or the fact that Sam might have been right. He was right about at least one thing; they’d had their taste of normal. It had been pleasant, but also strange and unfamiliar. And boring, Dean tried to tell himself.

He couldn’t speak for Sam and his hiatuses from the hunting world with Jessica and, later on, Amelia. But if he’d been truly happy with either lives, wouldn’t he resent that Dean had taken him away from them both?

Of course, Dean wasn’t completely clueless about what it was like. There was one woman, Lisa Braeden, with whom he’d at one point thought, This is it. And he’d been okay with that. She’d had a kid, too. Sometimes he felt that out of everything he’d left behind, Ben was what he’d miss the most. He wondered how the kid turned out, without Dean around to teach him how to drive a stick shift and take him to rock concerts. Better, he decided. Ben and Lisa were much better off now.

His thoughts returned to the bar setting, where an attractive blonde woman in a short wine-red dress had taken a seat next to him. She sighed, and the bartender said conversationally, “Are you waiting for someone?”

“All night,” Dean heard her reply. “Five hours late means I’ve been stood up, right?”

No, five hours late means he’s banging someone else as we speak. Dean stared determinedly into his shot glass, then flagged the bartender. “Another one, over here.”

The bartender nodded, and as he prepared another glass for Dean he said, “You’ve been here for a while too, right?”

Dean chuckled sardonically. “Not long enough.” Sensing the blonde woman’s attention turning onto him, he met her in the eyes. God have mercy, she’s a hot one.

She asked brazenly, “So, what does it mean? In a guy’s head, what makes him lose interest in someone before they even date?”

Offending her with his initial impression seemed like a bad move, so he cleared his throat and said smoothly,

“Well, you make men sound like insects, sharing the same thought frequency. I can’t speak for whoever made you wait five hours in that dress, but I can tell you I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all.”

Blondie’s heart-shaped face lit up like she’d gotten an early Valentine’s Day gift. Dean was about to impulsively order her a drink when one appeared in front of her.

“A gin and tonic?” she frowned. “I didn’t order this.”

The bartender told the confused woman, “A friend did. Table right behind us, white sweater.”

Dean shook his head. Whatever. It’s probably for the best. Then he heard her say, “I don’t understand…”

“Look, it’s not what you think. It’s just someone who knows the look of a jilted woman and wants to talk, that’s all,” the bartender explained while wiping down the counter.

Blondie gave a slight scoff. “Thanks but no thanks. I’m calling a cab.”

Definitely for the best, Dean thought now, relieved he’d lucked out. He’d met countless prima donnas just like that one, and none of them had been that great in the sack.

Seconds later, another woman approached the counter, and Dean was ready to settle his tab. Then she said, “She didn’t want it? Damn. I don’t even like gin and tonic.”

“Sorry, Noelle,” said the bartender, sounding genuine. “I tried to tell her you were just trying to help her out.”

Intrigued, Dean turned to find a black-haired woman in a white sweater and jeans sitting a few seats away from him. For a wild second, he thought he was looking at Lisa, except that she was paler and more doe-eyed.

“Scott, it’s okay,” she said sadly. “It got her to go home.”

Her dark eyes turned to Dean, and she smiled ruefully. “Hope I didn’t ruin your night.”

“I’m good,” he replied, though more words seemed to be stuck in his throat.

She shrugged and held up the glass of gin and tonic. “Peace offering?”

“No thanks.”

She moved closer. With a sparkle in her eye, she smiled, “You know, it could have been true love for all we know. Allow me to make it up to you.”

He knew what she was doing. And, awkward as it was, it was also adorable. Dean said at last, “How about you just talk to me some more, and we’ll call it even. I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Oh.” The woman looked surprised. “Okay then. My name is Noelle. I am–was a pediatrician. I like classical music and steampunk novels. My guilty pleasure is anything on the SyFy channel and chocolate mud pie for dessert.

Normally Dean would have found himself in over his head and detached at the mention of classical music, and he didn’t even know what steampunk novels were, but decided to stay to discuss the merits of SyFy programming.

Strangely enough, the longer he talked to Noelle, the easier it became to keep talking. It was nice, to feel comfortable talking to someone without the pressure to lay on the charm for an epic one night stand.

Things came to a head, however, when he noticed for the first time that evening that she wasn’t getting anything to drink, and offered to buy her one.

Noelle seemed crestfallen, and Dean asked, “So, what did you come here for anyways, if not to meet anyone? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Noelle gave a sad smile. “Well, despite what I’m doing right now, I did originally come here to live vicariously through watching others. It's an interesting experience when you're a leukemia patient with supposedly just a matter of months to live."

“Oh.”

Alarmed by his reaction to her confession, Noelle said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Are you gonna run? I don’t want to trap you here.”

He felt a bit ashamed for his discomfort. Yes, his initial reaction had been to run. Damn it, he sucked at this kind of thing. Noelle was dying and she was talking to Dean Winchester of the Men Don’t Bitch or Cry Club when she should have been talking to someone like Sam. Instead, though, he said, “I don’t…usually do this. You know, talking. Not like this.”

“You’re a loner,” she guessed.

“Not exactly.” Although a brother, an angel, and a hacker does make for one weird-ass family.

He ventured a bit closer to the truth. “I’ve just lost a lot of people over the years.” Realizing he might be making her think of her inevitable death, he quickly said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to – .”

She held up a hand, and gave a wry laugh. “It puts things in perspective for me. I’m not the only one whose number is almost up. It’s just that some people know it, and others don’t. Sometimes it’s an illness, other times it’s a bus. Or a bomb.”

“Or a gun,” he said, absentmindedly. Noelle looked at him, a sort of deep understanding in her eyes.

She rose from the table. Dean automatically stood, and asked, “Where are you going?”

“I want to go home,” she said in a low voice.

He nodded, preparing to let her go. But she held out her hand. “Do you want to come with me, Dean?”

A part of Dean really wanted to say yes. The other side told him he didn’t need this tonight, that it was a bad idea with even worse timing. That side was all responsible Dean.

That side lost


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was used to making the first move, but that didn’t mean he minded handing control over to a lady in the bedroom. Noelle was a surprise, though. After testing the waters with an initial kiss, she led him like it was a dance, all the way to her apartment wall. Her hands clutched at the skin underneath his coat while their lips played around, teasingly slow. He paused for a breath and let his coat drop to the floor as she wordlessly slipped out of her jeans. Her dark eyes remained steady, fixed on his, and her fingers didn’t falter, not even when they began tugging to unfasten his belt.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.

She only smiled and pulled him close, so that her back was pressed against the wall. Suckling her wet mouth with his tongue, something sparked within him, and it was more than a momentary physical need. It was a sense of understanding, he realized. She was using this as an opportunity to feel strong. And when she wrapped her legs around his pelvis, gasping as Dean responded with his body and pushed his flesh into hers, he forgot she was ill. Just like he forgot that he was cursed. In that moment, he felt strong too. Their bodies pulsed frantically together, trying to find synergy. Meanwhile, Noelle continued to reel him into further passion, lifting her soft white throat so that his lips could travel up her neck. He grunted a little bit as his knees buckled a little, then he adjusted his weight and began to move with more abandon. This made her moan a little, and her hands sprang to life.

With a frantic sort of grace, they moved from his back to neck to the back of his head. The longer they stayed on his skin, the hotter he felt, and it was driving him to have the wildest desire: He wanted to make her say his name. Tension gave way to release, and soon they moved together without any more stumbling. At the climax, she drew her head back and whispered, “Yes…I’m sure…” and he gave a low laugh, glad for the confirmation. However, he didn’t give up until the very end, when her moistened eyelashes brushed past his cheek and she breathed into his ear, “Dean.”

For some reason, hearing his name reversed his strength to weakness again, and right seemed to turn wrong.

What the hell? Dean asked himself, feeling numb as they dressed in silence. Talking and wall sex with a dying chick made you feel strong? Or maybe the screwed-up world of the Mark of Cain strikes again.

It took nearly half an hour of sitting down on the bed, but Dean and Noelle eventually lapsed into an awkward vibe as they prepared to say goodnight.

“You okay?” Dean asked her. She simply smiled at him again, and he thought then that he could never get sick of that. He stuck his hands into his coat pocket, and frowned.

Noelle saw his expression and said in concern, “What is it?”

“My phone,” he mumbled distractedly. “My brother’s been a freakin’ Mother Hubbard lately, he must have left twenty messages by now.”

Noelle nodded, and whipped out her own cell. “It has to be in here somewhere. Let me give it a ring.”

Dean gave her the digits, and they waited for “Smoke On The Water” to echo from some corner in the room.  
Finally, the opening chords could be faintly heard, and Noelle furrowed her brow. “Wait a second…it sounds like it’s coming from my closet.”

They definitely hadn’t had sex inside a closet, although it was possible the phone could have fallen out nearby it during their haste to be intimate. Still, Dean was apprehensive–in his experience, a weird coincidence was never really a coincidence at all–and went to the closet first.

The door slid open. He looked inside, startled.

“Son of a bitch,” said Dean. A teenage girl stood before him, holding his phone in one hand and a sheathed sword in the other. Her eyes were wide with alarm.

Behind him, Noelle gasped, “Oh my God,” and it was enough to catch Dean off guard. Moving with ninja-fast reflexes, the girl struck him in the knees with the sheath and followed with a rapid blow to his head, leaving him to shout obscenities while she ran out the door.

A bewildered Noelle asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he scowled. I just lost a game of hit-and-run to a pint-sized brat, but otherwise I’m awesome.

“Well, how did she get inside my closet?” she asked as he ran out into the hallway.

“I don’t know. But I’m gonna find out,” he promised. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but it definitely fell under the class of A Winchester Thing.

Noelle followed him to the stairs. “Wait, Dean. This girl–she could be in some kind of trouble. Or not,” she added quickly. “Just go easy on her. And let me know how it turns out, okay? My number’s in your caller history.”

Dean nodded. “I also know where you live. I’m not sure whether that’s supposed to make you feel any safer, but…see you around?”

She grinned, shaking her head. “See you around.”

Dean was used to picking up trails that might have otherwise gone cold, but that was usually for demons and creatures of the night and other things he was familiar with; perverse teenage female stalkers armed with a hand-to-hand combat skillset and a sword was not his forte.

He caught up to her on accident, though, glimpsing her from his peripheral vision while running past a dark alley.

She wasn’t alone. And the guy she was roughing up against a brick wall wasn’t human, at least by his voice. “What the hell are you?” he growled at her, enraged as she slammed his head again and again.

The girl replied conversationally. “Yeah, that’s right, you’re probably used to being on the delivering end of this type of encounter. Just tell me how to find him, and you’ll both get to live to see Hell another day.”

Hearing this, Dean approached them with caution. If he interrupted them, it would get the kid killed. So he stood by and listened as the demon spat, “You’d better kill me, or I’m gonna stick you through with your own sword, bitch!”

Normally, a demon would have broken her spine and ripped it through her chest cavity if she’d pissed it off this much. But the demon barely struggled.

“Crowley!” The girl cast aside her sword and pulled up her sleeves. “Where is Crowley?”

The demon turned to face her. “Sure,” he snarled. “I’ll be happy to send you to him. Make sure to tell him I said hi–.”

Code Red. Just as Dean was about to step in and save the stupid kid’s sorry ass, the demon’s face contorted, and he choked out in pain.

The girl was holding her right fist up to eye-level, and a light glowed through her hand, red and yellow like a flame. Meanwhile, the demon was beginning to steam from the inside out. His cries of agony were piercing enough to garner some serious public attention. It looked even more painful to Dean than the time he’d accidentally discovered Lorde.

Finally the demon dropped to the pavement. The girl sighed as if she’d just failed a book report instead of cooking a demon like a dumpling. Then she turned in Dean’s direction. Hastily, she scrambled for her sword.

Since the people who had been provoking Dean lately tended to end up dead, he was really hoping this girl wouldn’t piss him off like she did that demon. After he’d nearly beaten his friend Charlie to death in a mindless rage, he had some damn good reasons not to trust himself in these situations anymore.

Dean held up his hands. “It’s okay,” he told the girl. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” Well, I’m gonna try to not hurt you. The rest is up to how you handle it, he thought in correction. “Let’s just talk for a minute, without you going all Kill Bill on me.”

The girl stared at him. He couldn’t get a decent look at her now, under the ink-black winter night sky and the distant, weak streetlamps. But he remembered her black leather jacket, choppy jet-colored hair, and fair skin from that brief moment at the apartment. And he remembered that she’d been scared of him. A girl who’d just wasted a demon literally single-handedly had been, and still was, scared of him.

She had no idea how right she was to be. But she walked up to him and said determinedly, “I’m looking for Crowley.”

“Yeah, I heard you before. Look kid, I don’t know you but there are much cleaner ways to die.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Of course you don’t, but the bottom line is Rowena.”

Dean blinked. “Rowena…you mean the witch?”

“No, I mean the fairy princess,” the girl fired back. “Yes, the witch. She’s plotting a coup against Crowley.”

“Of course she is. And we care about that…” Dean’s words trailed into an unfinished question. The girl scowled at his lack of comprehension. Switching to the girl’s interests, he said, “How do you even know what Rowena’s doing?”

Biting her lip in hesitation, the girl answered, “My father told me.”

“Okay, good. Let’s get you back to your father and we can work this out.”

He pulled her hand, but she jerked it back and said in an odd, strained voice, “You can’t. He’s dead. She killed him…my entire family has been wiped out. It’s just me.”

Dean stood still for a moment. The look on her face was one he knew too well. Of course she wanted to put down the witch, but she wasn’t going to be able to do it alone. Even if the girl had witch-like magic herself, what little Dean knew of Rowena was that she was cunning, ruthless, and very powerful.

“Look,” he sighed. “I think I can help you. But you’ve gotta be honest with me, kid. Why were you in Noelle Paige’s apartment?”

She looked at him curiously. “Oh, that. I just know that Rowena’s recruiting allies and potential coven-sisters. I figured I’d go after someone on her wish list before she has the chance to screw up more lives.”

She snorted suddenly, “I thought Noelle would be alone.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should knock next time,” he retorted. “So why would Rowena want Noelle as one of the Charmed Ones?”

A closed expression passed over the girl’s face, but she replied, “Noelle’s dying. Maybe Rowena thinks she’ll be easy to manipulate if magic can cure her.”

“Can it?” Dean asked in spite of himself.

“I don’t know.”

Suspicious now, Dean shot back, “Wait a minute. You just smoked a demon out of its meatsuit. That’s some serious black-belt witchcraft, right? Wouldn’t you know if magic can cure someone with leukemia, Sabrina?”

“Sawyer.”

“What?”

“My name,” the girl said indignantly, “is Sawyer. And I am not a witch.”

“Then what are you?”

She closed her eyes briefly, thinking. Then she looked at him, her expression bold, and said, “How about I tell you on the way to your place, Dean? There’s actually a lot you should know about.”


	4. Chapter 4

In all fairness, Sam had only made four calls so far that night. The first three were for Dean, with the tone in his messages progressing from concern to subdued agitation to outright frustration. Unchecked thoughts placed Dean in various situations: In jail for attacking someone. Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie. Time-traveled to get laid by Marilyn Monroe. An anime convention.

Sam wasn’t sure which one was more horrifying. Even so, he tried to downplay these fears and turned to a source that could land Dean in any of those situations. He called for Castiel.

Cass returned within a minute of promising Sam he’d find Dean.

“What is it?” he asked the angel, who shuffled about in the Men of Letters’ study before he answered.

“I found him,” he informed Sam at last.

“Great. Where is he?”

Cass looked down. “He wasn’t alone. I didn’t want to interrupt them.”

Realization dawned on Sam, along with a bewildering combination of annoyance, paranoia, and mild relief.  
“Was he okay?” he asked tentatively.

“I was only there for five seconds. From the sounds he and the female made, he seemed to have been enj–.”

“Okay, okay, all right!” Sam cut in, silently cursing his occasional negligence to clarify his meaning before Cass could start sounding off like an observing narrator on a National Geographic program.

So they waited. Waited until, finally, the sound of footsteps echoed from the bunker staircase, and Sam was all ready to let his brother have his due.

“What the hell kind of a name is Sawyer?” Dean’s voice carried as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Sam barely had the time to be confused before a girl’s voice answered, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s half the title to a Rush song.” Dean waited for the girl to catch up with him, while Sam stood slack-jawed.

The girl was at most around seventeen. Possibly younger, with her prominent freckles and youthful style.

Despair filled Sam. He knew his brother wasn’t exactly himself these days, but Dean with a minor…

“Sammy,” Dean greeted him gruffly. He frowned as he saw the angel behind Sam’s shoulder. “Hope you boys at least played pinochle or something while I was gone.”

“Dean,” Sam began. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Dean’s frown became a confused one. “Isn’t what?”

“This is not the same female,” Cass said helpfully.

Flustered, Sam figured out too late that his brother had caught on.

“Wait a second, you actually thought–.” He gestured his teenage companion, and the girl blinked.

“Gross,” she said, flippantly wrinkling her nose.

“Well,” said Dean, coming to the conclusion that he’d done live porn, “Awkward as hell. I should have charged admission for that show!”

“Sorry,” Castiel and the girl said at once.

Curious, but not wanting to upset Dean further, Sam said casually, “I called you a few times, man. What’s going on?”

“Oh, right, my phone.” Dean turned to the girl, who withdrew it from her pocket. “So, what were you doing with this during your whole voyeur experience? Playing Candy Crush?”

“Candy Crush?” repeated Sam, but Dean shushed him so that the girl could answer.

“Trying a phone number. 666, right?

Dean looked at Sam and explained, “Sawyer wants to warn Crowley that Rowena’s plotting to–how exactly did you put it, kid?”

The girl–Sawyer, replied, “Cersei-Lannister his status.”

“Right, so she wants to manipulate a takeover,” Dean translated.

Then Castiel surprised them by saying, “It’s more than that. It must mean that Just as Cersei Lannister ruled as regent for her son, so too must be Rowena’s intentions.”

They all stared at him. Sam could tell that Dean was going to marvel over Cass’s impressive Game Of Thrones knowledge, but the girl needed to ask a more pressing question.

“Okay,” she said, crossing her arms. “Now we can all agree to take her out, right?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Why would we want to help Crowley?”

“Just hear her out, Sammy,” Dean interrupted the girl before she could snap at Sam. “She’s got some good reasons for this.”

“Thanks,” said Sawyer appreciatively. Her face turning somber, she told Sam slowly, “I was kidnapped when I was thirteen, for this whole camp Rowena was running to train kids with potential for magic. It was pretty much full-on Harry Potter meets Hunger Games, with kids killing each other using the Dark Arts.”

She paused and blinked a tear that was glistening out of the corner of her eye. Sam was still. Her story was almost like his own, back when the Yellow-Eyed Demon that had killed his parents abducted him and placed him in a ghost town, where he was meant to kill the other psychics of his generation.

Sick, he thought bitterly.

Sawyer took a breath and continued, “By the time my fa…I was found, there was no one else left. I got out before she could claim my soul, though.” She said this all very quickly, and Sam could tell she was trying to relay this difficult story without stopping.

She thinks she’ll fall apart if she thinks about it.

Dean broke in quietly. “That’s when she killed your dad, right?”

Sawyer didn’t nod, but only looked past Sam with a deadened gaze.

“All right,” said Dean, clapping his hands once for attention. “Let’s hurry up and gank this bitch.”

“Dean,” said Sam suddenly. “How exactly are we going to do that?”

Sawyer said, “We might not have to. I mean, Crowley’s probably going to want her dead once he knows.”

“We can’t rely on that premise alone,” Castiel spoke from the back of the room. Sam turned around; he’d completely forgotten Cass was there. Cass, who had moments ago dazzled them all with his Game of Thrones-savvy conclusion, was looking quite unhappy at being left out of the conversation. “Crowley would want solid proof of his mother’s deception.”

“I don’t know, Crowley’s pretty paranoid when it comes to Hell. I mean, I told him he was on Cain’s hit list and he came running,” Dean argued.

“Cass is right,” Sam said. “I mean, even if we did have any definitive evidence against Rowena, there’s no guarantee he’d want to kill her, or be able to at all.”

They looked at Sawyer, who shifted uncomfortably under the attention.

“Do we even have proof?” Dean asked her.

She shook her head.

Cass said, “Then the matter is left to us, and as Sam points out, Rowena will be a challenging adversary.”

Sam then wondered about the angel, and his Heaven-powered abilities. It appeared Dean was wondering too. His brother said, “Cass, there was a time when you could smite a person just for looking at you naked. Would that be any use for us at all?”

“It has been many years since I've done that, Dean. Perhaps too many for full confidence."

“So that leaves you and me,” Sam told his brother. “And we don’t do witchcraft.”

A small hand tentatively raised in the air. Sawyer cleared her throat.

“Absolutely–,” Dean began, but Sam finished the objection for him.

“Not. Okay, listen Sawyer,” he said over her protests, “I’m sorry about what happened to you. And your dad. But whatever you’re signing on for right now, revenge or justice, it isn’t worth you dying.”

“Or worse,” Dean agreed. “Kid, this ain’t gonna be a bucket of water followed by a ding-dong-the-witch is-dead themed party. Get in her way and you could end up spending the rest of your life without any skin on your face.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I know what she can do. She taught me herself. I was the last survivor of my class. I think I deserve a graduation ceremony.”

Sam couldn’t blame her. However, it was Cass who surprised everyone by asking Sawyer, “Are you certain you can do this?”

Sawyer’s voice was deadly serious. “Oh yeah.”

Dean shot them aghast glances. “Seriously? We’re seriously doing this.”

“Yes,” Sam said firmly. “Now are you going to make the call? Or am I?”

Dean swore loudly and left the room. Sam, however, kept his eyes on Sawyer as she followed. She wasn’t telling them everything, obviously, but what were her reasons?

When they were alone, Cass told him, “That girl…doesn’t belong here.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, although he couldn’t say why he felt that way. “I’ll watch her.”


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn’t too long ago that the Winchesters had to get an audience with Crowley through a demon-summoning ritual. These days, they liked to save time by having his number on speed-dial, but the King of Hell was still most likely miffed about the last time Dean played him against Cain. Therefore, Dean figured that the least harmful way to get a furious Crowley to show up and listen to the girl was to conjure him.

Dean and Sawyer had left Sam and Cass upstairs to gather more intel for this mission. Since Sawyer was less than forthcoming about her past, Dean knew this meant they were bound to dig something up on her. He himself gave her the chance to open up while they were preparing the ingredients in the bunker’s dungeon.

“So before we do this, we need to have a few details clear. The name of your dad’s going to make or break your case for Crowley. It ties together what Rowena’s been doing. You understand?”

Sawyer nodded, her eyes wide. She was nervous.

“It’s going to be okay,” he assured her. “I’ll be right here.”

Dean lit the conjuration mixture, muttered the proper incantation and dropped a match into the powder.

Moments later, Crowley appeared, a cross expression on his face and his fists stuck firmly in his suit pockets. “Here to apologize? Or shall I just start trying to find ways to kill you again? Because that, I would enjoy immensely.”

Punching Dean in the arm, Sawyer shot him a look of utter bafflement before mouthing, “Is that him?”

Dean nodded curtly and leaned his ear so that she could whisper, “Has he always loved the sound of his own voice, or is that a new trait?”

Dean snorted in response. Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t mind me, I’ll just wait over here and bird-watch,” he said lazily, having seen the exchange. “Who’s your little pigeon, Squirrel?”

“Sawyer,” she said before Dean could answer him. She added, “I’m sorry, I just pictured you being a bit taller.”

Crowley cast an unimpressed glance at Dean. “Whose brat are you babysitting today?”

With frustration from lacking that name, Dean nudged Sawyer, who said boldy, “Someone killed by your dear old mum.”

“Come again?” Crowley’s voice held a deadly edge.

Dean supplied, “Apparently Rowena has been taking kids and placing them in some kind of dark witch academy.  
She makes them kill each other for funsies.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is that so? Because that would be far too ridiculous, even for gossip. How do you even bloody know about her being my mother?”

When there was no response, he said, “Aha. So you’re tattling on my mother doing preposterous misdeeds that I would have no concern about whatsoever. Have a lovely day then, Pigeon. Squirrel.”

Sawyer blurted out, “Your mother wants to overthrow you. Chain you up like some kind of demented puppy while she makes Hell so bad it makes everyone miss your version.”

The King of Hell’s face purpled in shock. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, you two, but you damn well better clarify this muck up.”

“Look, I get that you’re pissed off and you don’t have any reason to believe us–,” Dean began.

“Of course I’m pissed off! Give me one good reason why I should even check into what you’re saying.”

Sawyer shrugged, “Because you don’t really want Hell to be a place where your mother reads you chapters of Outlander?”

“Tell him,” Dean urged her.

Sawyer closed her eyes. “I can’t tell him. Not like this,” she explained. “Can you please just give us a minute? I don’t think he’ll believe me unless I talk to him on my own.”

“No.”

Crowley’s interest pricked up a bit, and he said, “Oh, no worries mate. I won’t kill her if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, what I’m thinking is that she needs to come clean with me as much as with you,” Dean said sharply.

“Well you can’t have one, so you’ll have to settle for the other,” Sawyer snapped, her brown eyes glaring at him fiercely.

In the end, Dean gave her five minutes to speak with Crowley one-on-one. He paced the hall outside the dungeon, where Sam found him.

“Hey, what are you doing out here?”

“Nothing,” said Dean. “Damn girl would rather tell a demon king more about herself than what she tells us.”

Sam cursed. “Why the hell’d you agree to that, Dean?”

“Because I figured we’d get more information out of this if she at least told someone! What did you find out about her sword?”

Sam looked at him gravely. “That sword she brought with her was decorative. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing special or powerful about it. However, it had something tied around the sheath.” He showed Dean a large leather pouch and opened it up to reveal the vials inside. Some contained materials that faintly glowed, while others glinted in the dark. Sam pulled out one that held a small pile of sand.

“What’s this?” Dean asked, using his fingers to pluck something soft out of the bag–a feather. “Sam, what does this prove? We already know the kid’s been using magic. This crap ain’t gonna tell us who she is.”

Sounding resigned, Sam said, “Yeah. I’ll keep digging around.”

“In the meantime,” Dean said, pulling the door to the dungeon, “time’s up.” With Sam following him, Dean went back into the dark room. “Well?”

“Well,” repeated Crowley, smug at knowing something that the Winchesters didn’t. “This has been most interesting. I like her, by the way,” he said, nodding at Sawyer. “Good honest girl. Won’t play you for chumps. We’ll be in touch.”

A surprised Dean blinked, and the King of Hell was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, Dean woke to find Sam pacing the bunker’s study, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, I’ll send you a photo. Thanks Charlie.” He hung up and saw Dean staring at him.

“Charlie?” he said skeptically.

Sam shrugged. “She’s one of the few friends we have with a fetish for medieval weaponry. She might be able to help identify Sawyer’s sword.”

Dean disagreed, but wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Okay, well, good luck investigating the kid while she’s here with you.”

Sam frowned as Dean picked up his jacket and his keys. “Where are you going?”

“To follow another lead,” Dean explained. “Sawyer mentioned that Rowena’s zeroing in on a woman named Noelle Paige.”

“Why?”

“Not exactly sure yet, but we know she’s tried recruiting women to rebuild her coven before. So I’m just going to visit Noelle, ask her a few questions, and warn her if I have to.”

Sam shook his head. “Are you going off of Sawyer’s intel here? Because it might be hard to convince a stranger that an evil, powerful witch she’s never met is going to lure her into witchcraft.”

Dean gave a small sigh. He had, in fact, been thinking about this all night. “Sam, listen. The girl has nothing to gain by lying to us. I figure that even if we can’t trust her story, we can at least trust her motives.” Seeing Sam’s incredulous expression, Dean quickly changed the direction of their conversation.

“Anyways, gotta go. I promised Noelle I’d call her today.”

Sam trailed after him, blustering loudly, “Wait, what? You’ve already met this woman? You slept with her last night, didn’t you?”

“Actually,” Dean said cheerfully, “we didn’t sleep. The action was all vertical.” He clapped his shocked brother on the shoulder. “Sorry you were the only one in the bunker who couldn’t be there.”

Dean left the bunker feeling like a dog relishing in his own dirt. In spite of everything from the Mark to the complications Sawyer was causing in his life, this was probably the best he was going to feel in a while. Riding his Baby under an uncharacteristically bright February sun, off to meet a beautiful woman…he could easily forget that life sucked at every turn he made.

Upon showing up at Noelle’s apartment, Dean expected to face the same awkwardness that had been hanging between them when he’d left last night. Should he apologize? “I just wanted to say I’m sorry I wasn’t more considerate towards your condition or if I hurt you on accident. I also regret the girl in your closet, the fact that bizarre crap happens like this to me all the time, and that Rush Limbaugh could probably do a better apology than this…”

There was a reason why Dean didn’t write Hallmark cards.

However, when Noelle opened her door and saw him standing there, her face glowed with delight. “Hey!” she grinned.

“Hey,” he returned, smiling in spite of himself. “You didn’t think I’d come back, did you?”

She blushed in confirmation. “So how was the chase? Did you find her?”

“The girl? Yeah, she’s fine. She’s staying at my place for now…” Dean leaned in to see a shape ducking in and out of Noelle’s kitchen. “Do you have company?” he asked her carefully, fearing the worst.

“Oh! Right,” she said quickly, appearing to have forgotten about it due to his arrival. “Sorry, I’m having a meeting right now.”

“In your kitchen?”

“She’s one of those holistic healers. I know, I know,” she rolled her eyes, misreading his expression of alarm. “It’s probably too late for me, but as long as I keep that in mind, it can’t hurt to try, right? Dean?”

“Huh?” said Dean, startled. “No, not at all. Can you do me a solid, though? I was eating this greasy sandwich in my car on the way here, got it all over my hands, so if I could use your sink–.”

Noelle smiled again. “Of course you can.”

Dean stepped inside, one hand preparing to draw the gun out of his jacket. When he saw the back of a slender woman with russet hair in the kitchen, he muttered, “Rowena?”

The woman turned. Her face was bright and cherubic, eyes as blue as the sky outside. Damn. “Beverly,” she corrected him pleasantly. “Would you like to stay for tea?”

***

Back at the bunker, Sam was doing his best to continue distrusting Sawyer. However, he had to begrudgingly admit that she made a pretty damn good chicken-spinach pizza.

“I didn’t know we had half of these ingredients,” he marveled, taking a bite while she washed the dough and cheese-encrusted dishes she’d used.

“I guess Dean does the cooking around here then,” Sawyer ventured.

“Sometimes.” Suddenly armed with the opportunity to get to know the girl, Sam asked, “Who taught you to cook? Your mom?”

Sawyer dried the last plate and sat down. “My dad. Mom was more of the ‘drown your kid in the bathtub to save them’ type of parent.”

Sam stared at her. Damn, this kid’s life sounded crappier all the time.

Sawyer recognized the sympathy that was forming in his eyes, and said firmly, “Hey. It’s fine, my dad more than made up for it.”

“So you two were close?”

“Understatement,” chuckled the girl. “I think the only time we ever disagreed on something was our ongoing debate of whether Lana Del Rey counts as musical porn.”

Sam was nearly choking on his pizza crust when his phone began to ring. He coughed hastily and picked up.

“Hi Charlie,” he said into his phone. He didn’t miss the chilling look Sawyer was giving him, a look that clearly said she was on guard once more.

“Sam,” said the breathy high voice of Charlie Bradbury. “That picture you sent me? I had to double check, crazy coincidence right? I mean, how can it possibly–.”

“Charlie!” Sam interrupted. “Slow down a bit, okay? What is it?”

“That picture you sent? It’s my sword.”

“What, you mean it was stolen?” Sam asked, returning Sawyer’s cold stare.

Charlie said quickly, “No! Mine’s right here. And it’s one of a kind. I had it made by a friend of mine, he’s into LARPING and makes cool swag on the side.”

“You’re sure?” Sam asked, as the weight in his stomach seemed to flop.

“Dead sure.”

“Thanks Charlie,” Sam said slowly. “I’ll call you back.” Then, hitting to end the call, he faced Sawyer. “Who are you?” he asked quietly.


End file.
